


Visions

by Scuffin_MacGuffin



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 18:28:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1176418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scuffin_MacGuffin/pseuds/Scuffin_MacGuffin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders tries not to let his wanking material get the better of him. He meets with limited success.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Visions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [firstblush](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstblush/gifts).



> Written for my dearest, who requested, "Anders wanking off and being mad about it."

+

Anders is having a truly _loathsome_ morning.

He is not, of course, unused to loathsome mornings -- they are rather a side effect of his particular line of work. Frequently his mornings come on the heel of his not having slept for even an hour, and then the gradually brightening sunrise only makes him more exhausted and more frustrated than he was before. Even when he has slept, his mornings are not liable to be any sort of pleasant. There are mornings when the first thing he tastes upon waking is the lingering disappointment of losing a patient to the leeching dark of the night before, and there are others when he drifts into consciousness with some dreadful realization already weighing down the pit of his stomach before he ever even opens his eyes: that any excitement on his part about completing the latest draft of his manifesto is worth nothing in light of the fact that there is no one at all who is going to read it, for example, or that he is only one man, and the whole world is _the whole world,_ and if he lived a thousand years there would be nothing he could do to change that. If he had a morning that wasn’t dreadful, then _that_ would be the true deviation from the norm.

And yet, Anders finds _this_ morning to be distinctly loathsome. Unpleasantness he is used to, as a general rule. What he takes issue with now is the _cause_ of this particular unpleasantness.

Sebastian Vael was at the Hanged Man last night.

That’s a fact, annoying, but true. Annoying, but by all rights relatively minor in the grand scheme of things -- or it ought to be. It oughtn’t linger insistently long after the party’s disbandment, long after the dull trudge home.

Anders is still thinking about it, though. He shouldn’t be, and he knows, he knows, that it is nothing but idiocy, and he even stayed up late, stayed up the whole night, trying to work himself into an exhaustion so steep that it would leave him with no faculties left to think with by the time he collapsed into bed. He’d copied his manifesto over ten different times, restocked the clinic’s entire supply of potions, tinkered with the new cypher he’s been thinking of having the Underground begin to use, read some of a very interesting and very illegal book arguing that the entire story of Andraste is so drenched in metaphor that her very existence as a historical figure ought to be in doubt, and he’d even done his bloody laundry -- his coat, in particular, had been getting discomfitingly grimy, and required a good long scrubbing. When the first slivers of dawn began creeping their way into the clinic, Anders could barely see straight. He had thought, then, that he was safe. He’d retreated to his backroom, dragged the burlap sack that is his excuse for a curtain over the jagged hole in the wall that is his excuse for a window, and shoved himself under the covers to sleep.

But in spite of all that, upon closing his eyes: Sebastian. Still Sebastian.

And he had been -- is now -- will always be, at this rate -- undeniably, unforgivably hard.

It’s not fair, that his body and his willful impulses should betray him in this way. Sebastian is an attractive man, Anders will give him that, and it’s true that Anders does have use for the occasional attractive distraction to focus on when sheer physical frustration reaches a point where even Justice would admit that Anders has no option but to take himself in hand. But Anders knows plenty of other attractive people who _don’t_ just so happen to be in opposition to everything that he stands for. Any of them ought to serve just as well.

For some reason, however, his subconscious considers this point moot. Sebastian is the one lurking in his fantasies, just waiting to catch him off guard. Anders has thus far denied himself any indulgence, but each time Sebastian shows up at Varric’s suite it only gets harder not to give in; his every stray movement is a new bit of fodder for Anders’ imagination to fixate on. Anders spends a lot of time in his company on Hawke’s ventures, sure, but sitting across a table from him is wildly different. Across a table, Anders is close enough to be able to count his eyelashes, if he wishes, to be able to see the hundreds of different incarnations of auburn flickering through the neat strands of his hair. He can catch him armorless, watch the fabric of his shirt stretch over his broad shoulders; he can watch his throat work as he speaks. It’s torture.

Anders had originally held out hope that after a few months the novelty of having a Prince among their party would wear away into universal distaste. Unfortunately, universal distaste has not come to pass (some of Hawke’s company, Hawke included, have even become _fond),_ and Sebastian continues to be as welcome at outings as Anders himself is. And the more Sebastian attends, the more Anders finds himself falling prey to his own foolishness -- not to mention, the more risk that someone else will notice his misplaced desires. Maker, but he can imagine it. The teasing would never end.

The worst thing though, about being forced to keep Sebastian’s company, is the talking. _Their_ talking. After everyone else is drunk and dozing and he and Sebastian are the only two sober souls left in the bar -- _that_ talking. Anders thinks that if only he could make himself leave before it got to that point, then he might be saved. But the pull of conversation is too seductive. To be able to sit with someone who, if he brings up, say, the possible validity of the Dissonant Verses and what they might mean for mages, actually has an _answer,_ and an argument, a willingness to go back and forth instead of a sigh and an advisement to lighten up -- that’s not fair. How could Anders possibly resist that?

It’s true that Anders knows plenty of attractive people who so don’t happen to be in opposition to everything that he stands for. But an important corollary to that is that Anders doesn’t happen to know any attractive people (or anyone at all, it often seems) who actually care about what he stands for, and so when Sebastian came along, Anders’ imagination took the small bit of recognition that Sebastian spares for him and ran with it. Anders _hates_ it, he really does, that he has managed to get himself quite so caught up for quite so little reason, especially in a fool would-be Prince, would-be Priest whose only virtues are his devastating cheekbones and the fact that he is open to a good debate.

Though there is also, Anders grudgingly supposes, that he is generous, and that he is on the whole easygoing, and that he is invested in the ideal of justice (even if his perspective on it is all wrong). That he is in possession of quiet, un-mean sense of humor, and that he has an appreciation for the small happinesses of life, and that he has a collection of barely-there smiles which Anders has not even begun to properly catalogue--

It’s useless, isn’t it? Utterly useless. This morning is determined to be loathsome, and nothing but that.

Fine. It wins.

Anders lets out a half-grudging, half-anticipatory breath, and lets his hand trail down to the front of his leggings.

As soon as he gives in, a flood of images swamp his mind, a flood of dizzy possibilities: Sebastian, disrobed and ruddy in the light of some warm and crackling fire, dragging a slow knuckle along the line of his collarbone. Sebastian, stiff as death, trying not to scream as Anders sucks his cock in a Chantry confessional. Sebastian, young and wild, as he must have once been, lapping alcohol from Anders’ fingers. Sebastian, languid and imperfect and familiar, spread out as much as he’s able on Anders’ little cot and smiling, smiling in welcome, as Anders opens the door to find him there, waiting patiently in the clinic’s backroom--

Anders hurriedly shoves all of these all away; the last one in particular is too exasperatingly foolish to be of any proper use. This is a _distraction,_ he reminds himself, not a... not something else. He doesn’t have to lose his dignity entirely, if he is going to do this. It can be something manageable, can’t it? Not sentimental. A fantasy anyone could be forgiven for having.

First of all, not here. Far away. He is dreaming about a Prince, so why not a palace? He remembers being an itchy, growing-out-of-his-own-skin apprentice back in the Circle; he had discovered, thanks to a wink and a vague hint from Karl (who was still ‘Enchanter Thekla’ back then, his title always awkward on Anders’ lips, half-hushed with smouldering boyhood want), the well-read collection of lurid Orlesian romance ballads hidden in the library behind the two hundred and forty-seven volumes that comprised _The Complete Lectures of First Enchanter Wenselus._ The discovery had, first of all, solved the mystery of why so many mages seemed so very interested in the centuries-old wisdom of a stodgy, dull, and dead enchanter. Secondly, it had provided a welcome distraction from the long, waking hours spent in his bunk in the dormitory after curfew, thinking alternately about sunshine and about his mother and about Karl and aching for all three. The thought of any of them still do make him ache, even now -- perhaps that’s another attraction of Sebastian, of thinking about Sebastian. There’s no baggage attached to him, besides the obvious and the impersonal. Annoyance only, and no aching, no mourning. However much Justice might disapprove, and however much Anders might roll his eyes at himself, Sebastian is not a dangerous distraction.

The main thing to do, of course, is to keep him that way.

So, the ballads. What’s important about them is that they always told of castles, fancy sprawling ones with marble ballrooms and chamber pots wrought from gold, that sort of thing. Even if both the star-crossed lovers started off the story as paupers, eventually one of them would find out that they were secretly royalty, and then it would be rich food and servants and silk sheets from here to forever. As for the descriptions of the goings-on occurring on those silk sheets -- well, it was enough to make a fourteen year-old blush. It might just have made an impression on his overactive imagination, and the impression lingers even now, enough so that the mere thought of luxurious bedding is enough to send a claw of heat dragging through him, enough to make him breathe deeply and press the heel of his hand firmly against himself through his clothing.

So yes, there is a palace, in this daydream, with marble ballrooms and golden chamber pots and all the like. And there are also, of course, a great very many grand and imposing personal suites, within them contained a great very many grand and imposing bedrooms, and Anders brashly places himself in the grandest and most imposing of them all. There is a thick rug, and a roaring fire, and every corner is ornamented in violet and gold. It’s probably tacky, but there’s nothing wrong with that; Anders has always rather liked tacky, even if he hasn’t recently been able to afford it. Finally, there is the bed, overabundant with rich fabric and heaps of pillows, standing commandingly in the center of the room. And what on the bed?

Sebastian. Fine. It has to be Sebastian, a shiny bauble, a distraction, some wistful promise of future care; Anders’ mind has made itself up about that. This is probably his damn palace, anyhow, and him the bloody Prince. Whether from Justice or from cynicism, Anders has a little too much rigidity in him to imagine away that particular set of circumstances. But this is nevertheless Anders’ fantasy. It has to be Sebastian, sure, and Sebastian has to be what his blood makes him, but in spite of all that, other details may still apply -- he can still be face-down, for example. Yes. Face-down and available, his ass in the air and his thighs spread and trembling. Anders likes that well enough. Tantalizing, the thought of a Prince so very debased, in his own bed at that, for him. For Anders. Anders presses his hand yet harder against himself, then dares to drag it upwards, lets his fingers dip below his waistband. When he touches his cock, he can feel wetness already accumulating at its tip. Yes, he likes that pretty well indeed.

He thoughtfully thumbs through all of the possibilities, considers how he might color in the particulars of this daydream. What might be the flavor of the sweat pooling in the small of Sebastian’s back, for example, or how much or how little hair there might be downing his calves, the backs of his thighs. Of special interest: in what ways he might be using that melodic voice of his. Anders finds the prospect of putting words in his mouth enticing. In his head, he runs his hand proprietarily along Sebastian’s flank, and he hears Sebastian moan, _“Anders,”_ in response. Anders could get used to the sound. He circles the bed now, a smile playing about his lips, listening -- “Anders,” Sebastian says prettily, “Oh, Anders. You are right. You have been right about everything.”

“Is that so? Tell me more.” In reality, Anders’ response is nothing but an aborted breath in the back of his throat.

In fantasy, Sebastian answers with vigor. “Yes! I realize now that I have been wrong all along. So, so wrong. I am an ignorant hypocrite. It is a miracle how anybody could ever even stand putting up with me. Please Anders, please, teach me how not to be an idiot.”

Mmm. Perfect. A little tacky perhaps, but why not? Anders does like that sort of thing, after all.

But there is some part of him, the horrible interfering Justice-tinged part, that is discontent at the unabashedly self-serving direction that this fantasy is taking. Sebastian Vael would clearly not in reality say such things, so surely it must be a violation to make him do so here.

It’s _masturbation,_ Anders thinks with exasperation. It’s _supposed_ to be self-serving.

The discontent persists. Anders reluctantly supposes that, to an extent, he even agrees with it; whatever pleasure there is in jerking himself to the thought of Sebastian might well be lessened on the whole if he allows himself to distort his vision of him by too much. Feeding him lines is satisfying, yes, but it’s the essence of the man, the _him-_ ness of him, that has embedded him so deeply into Anders’ thoughts that Anders finally had to admit defeat and allow him into his fantasies in the first place.

Fine. A compromise, then. Sebastian will say nothing. He will merely pant into the sin-soft pillows, waiting to be touched. Anders imagines it. Yes, that seems right. His chest heaving gracefully, his mouth open and his eyes closed. Anders pictures the way he would touch him, lightly, just here or there as his mood dictated, how Sebastian would shudder fitfully at each touch. He would be so, so worked up, even before Anders brushed a single finger against his cock. Maker, but Anders does imagine that that’s how it would be for him, after years and years. The desperation that Sebastian would feel, the hushed and crucial nature of it: reverent as if in prayer, as if hanging on the _end_ of a prayer, every atom of him revolving around this one, urgent need.

He does give himself so fully into things, doesn’t he? Commits himself entirely to whatever it is he’s in the middle of? Sometimes it’s to his own feral instincts: the glee of battle or the fury of vengeance. Sometimes it’s to what is solid around him: his friends, the gaudy trappings of his faith. His faith itself. It does not seem like such a stretch to picture him giving himself so fully here, either, to picture him giving himself entirely up to want.

Anders thinks about how degrading it is for him in this scenario to be showing such desperation, in his own palace, to a lowly Ferelden apostate. It’s an appealing thought: degrading him, having power over him. But somehow that doesn’t seem to be the main point. That Sebastian is the sort of person who _can_ give unreservedly of himself, that he is somehow whole enough to be able to offer himself wholly -- that, more than anything, perhaps, is why he is in Anders’ head in the first place. Anders is so very used to scraps, and Sebastian--

But he wasn’t supposed to let this get sentimental, was he?

He had best get it over with.

He shifts his focus to the bed. The fluidness of the fabric, its obscene violet richness, how when he gets up on it (he imagines himself getting up on it), the sheets are soft as breath against his knees. He shifts his focus to the bed, and as for the man on the bed, he shifts his focus to his body, and nothing else. His body’s availability. His body’s wanton display. The sweat pooling at the small of his back tastes of salt, Anders decides, and he imagines the way it would sting his rough, chapped lips. In reality, it’s the taste of precome stinging his lips, as he gathers it with his fingertips from the tip of his cock and brings it to his mouth. In fantasy, the two tastes blend together.

He sucks his fingers down his throat, and licks his palm -- if he were really in the lavish bed, in the stately palace, then he would be making Sebastian do this for him. He would be eager for it, doubtless, as eager to wet Anders’ fingers as he would be eager for anything that Anders could possibly do to him. Maker, but Anders loves that quality in him, turns it over in his mind -- perhaps he would not even say anything, matching Sebastian’s needful silence; perhaps he would merely take the Prince’s hips in his hands and _fuck_ straight into him, without permission, without even a single word--

Anders groans aloud, in real life, on his stiff cot, imagining the sensation of Sebastian’s body yielding to him, opening up and gripping him; he drags his fingers from his lips to his cock and finally wraps his hand fully around it. There is nothing halting about his touch now. If anything, he is too rough with himself; his hands are as chapped as his lips are, rough with work and the immutable weight of his staff, and his grip is rough too, fierce even, the pressure of it tinging its way into pain.

But as much as it is, Sebastian would be more, if Anders were to have him -- he would be tight like a vice, after years of chastity, _is_ tight like a vice, at least in Anders’ head. And he’d like being that way too, even if Anders wasn’t careful with him, even if it hurt. He has that delightful tendency for self-sacrifice. Anders can picture him, on his elbows and his knees, unresisting as Anders takes him for all he’s worth, breathy gasps dragged from his throat in time with Anders’ thrusts. Bracing himself each time Anders pulls out and being jerked helplessly forward each time Anders punches back in. Bruises, in reality, take a while to form, but Anders is going to go ahead and imagine them there already, handprints directly under where his grip holds Sebastian in place. He squeezes. Sebastian whimpers. Anders wants to make him whimper again, in every different way imaginable.

He pictures himself pulling his hands away from Sebastian’s hips, one travelling down his spine, pressing firmly as it goes, until it eventually reaches the nape of his neck and grips him tight there, holding him down. Anders’ other hand reaches around under him and teasingly brushes his cock. That by itself, Anders feels, would be enough to make him voice his sweet whimper again. But teasing requires patience, and Anders has none -- he wraps his hand around Sebastian’s cock in his fantasy as forcefully as he’s doing to his own in real life, and with as much faith to reality as he can muster he imagines the sound of Sebastian’s wild scream. He imagines himself fucking him straight through the sound, and back in his cot he fucks his own hand with just as much vigor. He is close, close, and if he is so then must Sebastian be as well, and it is not going to take much more of this--

And wistfully, wistfully, Anders finds that he wants to see the look in Sebastian’s eyes -- the look he _thinks_ would be waiting for him there, in Sebastian’s eyes -- when he makes him come.

It is a bad idea, an idiot one, even, an idea sneaking its toe over the line separating distraction from something else. But dreams, even daydreams, are very fluid things, and Anders is too caught up in the momentum of want to employ any wisdom. In his head, Sebastian is on his back now, and has always been on his back, with his hands tossed above his head and his legs splayed wide -- no, not splayed. He has one leg thrown over Anders shoulder, because Anders wants to imagine turning his head to kiss the crease of his knee. His cock is flushed and leaking in Anders’ hand, and his chest is heaving appealingly, and he is tighter than anything in the world, and Anders can imagine all of it so clearly that it is almost painful, that it is painful when in reality he finds himself viciously squeezing his own cock.

But in spite of all of this clarity, Sebastian’s expression is blank. That is a detail Anders hasn’t filled in. Sebastian’s eyes -- those remain closed.

Anders has not spoken to his conjured Sebastian yet in this fantasy, at least not in any way that meant anything. But now, he can’t help it. He tells him, “Look at me.” Murmurs it even in reality, under his breath to the muffled dawnlight of the clinic backroom.

In his mind, Sebastian opens his eyes.

Dreams are fluid things. And dangerous, too. Anders and Anders’ vision of Sebastian are no longer in the grand palace -- they have never been there. They are instead in the clinic, in Anders’ room, and everything is as it is in reality -- except that Sebastian is here. Except that Sebastian is looking at him. And Anders’ cot is so small that even lying on their sides there is no room for them to be anything but close, their legs tucked familiarly together, their noses touching, Sebastian’s bicep firm under Anders’ side, arm around him and fingertips trailing his hip. Anders is no longer inside of him, but this is somehow much more intimate than even that. Anders can picture it clear as day, enough so that his skin shivers in the place where he imagines Sebastian’s fingers to be.

This would be the time to throw himself out of bed and dump a bucket of cold water over his head. But instead, stupidly, he savors the vision of their closeness. Savors the sight of Sebastian’s blue eyes, twinkling with fondness. Sebastian smiles at him. Sebastian says, “I see you.”

Anders inhales sharply, shivers, and, alone in his cot again, comes all over his hand.

He spends a moment merely breathing, his insides strangely empty, the calm before the storm of self-beration. Even Justice does not yet show up to say ‘I told you so’ -- he must be feeling too much pity. Dimly, Anders thinks that Varric, at least, is going to find this amusing. Not that there’s a whole lot of solace in that, but Anders is feeling wretched enough to take what he can get.

No longer much in the mood for sleep, he rolls over, cleans up, and begins -- continues, rather -- his loathsome, loathsome day.

+


End file.
